I Need a Hero
by K. Elisabeth
Summary: George and Callie oneshot, set during LMR. Mostly Callie's point of view, dealing with the whole I love you issue.


**A/N:** Okay, so this is my first attempt at a Callie/George fic, and I'm pretty happy with the way it turned out. It's from Callie's PoV, which is new for me also, and I think I like writing her. She's more "highschool" than the rest of them. This was originally a songfic to the song "Holding Out for a Hero", a cover of which was done by Frou Frou and it's very good. But this site hates when I post songfics, and generally deletes those fanfics, so I removed the lyrics for safety's sake. I don't like being suspended from my account. -sad face- Anyway, please read&review and let me know what's good, what's bad, and what's just ugly. Grazie!

**Disclaimer:** I am not Shonda Rhimes (surprise! not) and I do not own Grey's Anatomy, The American Broadcasting Company (ABC), or Walt Disney Corporation. Although it would be really fantastic if I did. But I don't. Also, do let me note that I DID NOT WRITE THE DIALOGUE IN THE END OF THE FIC. Nope. That is from the scene in the hall between Callie and George near the end of "Losing My Religion", verbatim. Not mine. That character dialogue I do not own, nor do I claim to. Are we clear? Good. -grin-

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**I Need a Hero**

Callie stepped through the slinky black dress, one foot at a time, balancing awkwardly on one as she lifted the other with as much grace and prowess as she could summon. Calliope Torres was not graceful, never had been; it was just a fact of life. She was cut out for cracking bones and playing football – not tag, tackle – and doing girly things was never really up her alley. She hadn't ever even been to her own prom; didn't have a date.

Just like tonight. A bitter taste crept into her mouth and she swallowed it back, an angry, tempestuous look darkening her face. Just as true for Callie as it is for a majority of people, anger is simply a mask to hide the ugly feeling that is sadness, that is embarrassment, that is inadequacy. She felt all of it; sad, embarrassed, inadequate. Why couldn't he just say it? Why couldn't he say he loved her?

She turned her back to the mirror leaned against the wall, peering over her own shoulder and into the reflection of her muscular back peeking out through the black dress as she attempted to reach her arms around herself and zip it up. She looked pretty; she'd say it herself, because she did. A lot prettier than she ever had in high school.

She just wasn't one of the pretty girls, it wasn't her thing. Now she wore make-up and tamed her hair into long, bouncing black spirals and shaved her legs, and she looked attractive, even down-right hot. But none of the make-up or dress-up could cover that same look that had haunted her features in high school, and still plagued her today; the look of someone who knew they just weren't good enough. Not pretty enough, not popular enough, just not enough. Wasn't then, wasn't now.

The satisfying sound of the zipper drawing the two rows of metal teeth together echoed softly through the quiet of her hospital home. God, she was such a reject, such a social outcast that she didn't even have a home outside of the hospital. She lived in the hospital. What breed of loser lives in a hospital? She mentally attacked herself as she slipped her feet into shoes that just barely fit, because most stores with cute shoes just didn't sell her size – Callie was a big, tall girl, and tall girls tended to have big feet, end of story. She turned and looked herself over once again in the mirror, illuminated by the dim lighting in her living area.

She flicked the light off as she left, shutting the door softly behind her. Every time she passed by a partially-opened door, she felt as if she could hear the voices of the patients from inside the room whispering about her, talking trash about her, just like the girls in high school used to in the bathroom. Callie stood in the stall, pretending she couldn't hear them, waiting sometimes for ten or more minutes before they finally left, leaving her alone with the echoes of their callous remarks. _Loser. What a loser. Her boyfriend doesn't love her. She's so crazy about him, but he doesn't feel the same way. It's not a big deal for him, but she loves him. Can't get her mind away from him. Loser. Nobody will ever love you the way you want to be loved._

She turned the corner violently, shaking the thoughts from her head. No, this was not the time. She had been tormented by others for enough years, she wasn't about to torture herself with the same crap.

She loved him. She said it, out loud, to his face. She let the words just come out, spread their wings and fly without a second thought. She was so sure she'd hear it back. Hoped and prayed she'd hear it back. Bit her lip nervously, felt her stomach clench up and tie itself into a dozen knots. Didn't hear it back. Up, up and away, and all she got was an 'I'll talk to you later'. Not an 'I love you too' in sight. And ever since then it had been different, he had been different towards her; he didn't love her, and she had thought he would. Was sure he did. Had hoped beyond hoping that he loved her as much as she loved him. But he didn't. And it broke her heart into so many pieces.

She'd never been the type to let her feelings out, to tell anyone the way she felt. To avoid being hurt by guys, she didn't make herself vulnerable; never said she loved them, never let on how much she cared. Cold, distant, stand-offish, whatever; she wasn't going to be that girl, the one who gets kicked out on her ass just because the guy knows how bad he can hurt her, how vulnerable she is. Callie Torres would not be vulnerable, to anyone.

But she had let herself be, to George. She showed him the most vulnerable part of her, the part that beats and hopes and prays and wishes and dreams and loves, and he stuck a fork in it. No, didn't even stick a fork in it – he didn't even acknowledge it at all. Acted like that part of her didn't even exist, like she hadn't just said those words, hadn't just born all to him and let him hold her heart in his hands.

She kept walking down the hall, consumed in thought. She couldn't understand why he didn't love her. Couldn't understand what she had done wrong. Of course, there were a lot of things about George she couldn't understand – how he could forgive Meredith Grey, for one thing. There was no arguing with him though, he still loved her like she was family, like blood was thicker than water and she could kill Jesus Christ and he'd still love her.

He loved her, but he didn't love Callie. That was the thing she didn't understand most of all. That was probably one of the things that kept her up at night, that gnawed on the edges of her, that slowly unraveled her and made her crazy to think about because there was nothing rational or logical or comprehendible about that in any way, shape, or form.

She felt as if they were on different levels, and it frustrated, and more than that, hurt her immensely. To her it was real, to her it was strong and fierce and powerful; it made the tips of her fingers tingle and her breath come short, it gave her head reason and at the same time made her completely unreasonable. It was love. What was it for him? A fling? Somewhere to stay for the night? A rebound to help him get over being screwed (or more accurately, not screwed) by Meredith?

She yanked her dress down and shifted the straps on her shoulders when she heard a door click shut behind her, and footsteps. Footsteps she recognized. Uneven, clumsy footsteps, not unlike her own, and a loud, nervous breathing. Someone looking for someone, someone nervous, someone uneasy. George. She knew without turning around, without hearing his voice call out to her.

"Hey, I was looking for – where are you going?" he asked, sounding perplexed. Callie turned to face him, eyes narrowed, ready to spit venom. When she answered, her voice was even, but almost dangerous.

"I'm wearing a dress, I have on heels, I shaved my legs; I'm going to the prom," she growled, turning swiftly and walking away, completely intending to leave him standing, alone and baffled, in the hallway.

"Wait, you said you didn't wanna go!" George called out, and Callie turned and shook her head.

"No, I said I didn't wanna go with you," she corrected, pointing a finger and then turning her back to him, continuing to power-walk down the hall the whole time. George shook his head in frustration, and shouted out her name.

"Callie!"

She stopped, setting her jaw and blinking hard before turning and walking back over to where he stood, toying with the idea of hitting him before deciding against it.

"I said I love you. I said it out loud, to your face. And ever since, you've…" she stopped, catching her breath, as if all of this were painful and somewhat physically trying to go through. To some degree, it was. "I've never said that to a guy before, never. And now I'm just this idiot who says 'I love you' and then gets avoided."

"No, I'm not avoiding you!" George said, somewhat exasperatedly. "I promise."

"You gonna say it back?" Callie asked, giving him a level look. He sighed and turned away somewhat as he answered: "No."

"Humiliated," she said breathlessly, feeling her throat constricting, her eyes burning. She turned to run, to flee, to escape, but felt his hand on her arm.

"No, George, let me go," she insisted, feeling herself losing the battle with her emotions, which were at this point nearly overwhelming. But he wouldn't. "George, please, let me go," she faltered, trying to push his hand away as he steered her towards the wall. "Let me go, let me go," she pleaded, but nothing doing. He held her against the wall until she stopped fighting long enough to listen to him.

"If I say it back right now," he said, holding her face with his hand so that she was forced to look at him, though her eyes were determinedly looking away, "you know I'm just saying it because you said it to me. When I say I love you, I want to mean it, because…" he trailed off, and Callie finally met his gaze.

"You just have to give me some time to mean it," he half explained, half pleaded. Callie searched his face for any hint of dishonesty, for any between-the-lines meaning, and then looked down to his tie, unable to look at his face any longer.

"I hate that I'm so into you," she whispered, eyes wet. She looked up to his eyes again, and saw a considerable amount of her own pain reflected in his. Maybe he knew what it was like to be into someone who didn't have the same feelings for you. Actually, she knew he did. She understood a little bit, and maybe with that understanding, she'd be able to give him some time. Time so he could really mean it.


End file.
